


Dinner Roles

by htbthomas



Category: Santa Clarita Diet (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Abby, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Teamwork, Written before Season 2, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 12:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13031307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: Meal planning for Mom doesn't usually happen until after Dad has gone into the home office. Abby has no idea what he does while they're out… grocery shopping. Ick, now she's doing it.





	Dinner Roles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DelwynCole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelwynCole/gifts).



> Based on DelwynCole's prompt: "Some future-fic where Sheila has had the cure, and she and maybe Abby with back-up from Eric have turned into a much more efficient killing team, also where they figure out good ways to only kill off bad people. So basically they're like Dexter, only they kill to eat and not just to satisfy a desire to kill. Where it's kind of crazy, but it's their normal."
> 
> Thanks to Minim Calibre for the beta help!
> 
> EDIT: Written before the premiere of Season 2.

"Do you want me to see if we have, like…" The salesgirl's nose crinkles up. "...a different color?"

Abby tries to control the rush of embarrassment and annoyance that floods through her. It's not her fault that most colors wash her out. "Uh, sure. Please." She hands over the pants with a held-in sigh.

Becky—that's the name on the tag—quirks one side of her mouth and nods. "Yeah. I think…" She considers the pale blue fabric in her hands for a moment, then lingers on Abby's shirt, which has a ketchup stain that won't come out. "... _indigo_ blue." Then she spins and walks out of the dressing area on her tiny heels.

 _Becky_. 

Abby adds the name to the mental list. Well, not really. She can't just add any name she wants, but it sure feels good to pretend like it's going on there. Bitch.

Mom slides open the curtain on her dressing room with a swish and steps out. "What do you think of this?" she asks, doing a little twirl. 

"It's cute." It is, just the kind of dress that makes her mom look good, but not too young. It will hide when she's getting a little haggard from not eating recently. And it's dark, so it'll hide random stains. Like ketchup. Or blood. "I like it."

Mom turns to look in the mirror inside the dressing room again, striking a pose. "I do, too. It's a little expensive, but we did just sell that house on Sycamore…"

Becky comes back then, carrying a couple pairs of pants. "I brought indigo _and_ royal." She shoves them toward Abby, lips puckered like she had a whole lemon for her morning snack. 

"Thanks, sooo much." Abby adds a healthy helping of salt. Maybe this bitch is list material after all.

"Um… okay."

She leaves, thank god, and Abby lets out a sigh. "I don't know if I even like these pants."

"Honey…" Mom puts her hand on Abby's shoulder and squeezes gently. "...do I need to add her to the menu?"

She considers saying yes for a microsecond, but then shakes her head. "Ugh, Mom, no. She's annoying, condescending—" 

"As hell."

"—but not, you know, _irredeemably_ so." Abby pulls out of her grasp. "And _please_ stop calling it 'The Menu,' I beg you."

"Fine," Mom says, back to looking at herself in the mirror. "I don't see why not, it's just a little joke."

"It's also a little Hannibal Lecter." That's why Abby calls it a list instead. With a little sigh— 

~~Becky~~.

—the bitch is off the list. Abby looks down at the pants in her hands. "But hey, the first time she pulls a hit and run on a little old lady, or say, a dog, have at her." 

"Right. Gotta have standards."

"Exactly."

Abby leaves the pants in a crumpled pile on the floor. Mom yanks the security tag out of the dress with her freakish strength and they go have a fro-yo. Well, Abby does. With lots of chocolate sauce. Fuck stains, this shirt is still her favorite.

* * *

Dad's making dinner when they get home. Eric sits at the table, laptop open to his hack of the police database he swears is secure. 

"Find anything?" Abby asks. Then she winces, because Dad's right there. Dad starts to hum, pretending like he didn't hear anything.

Eric doesn't notice her faux-pas. He just tilts his head and squints his eyes at the screen. "Maaaaybe? There's this guy, just moved to town, didn't report it to the National Sex Offender registry when he should have..."

"Child molester?" Mom says, making a face. "Ugh. I had one of those last week."

"Beggars can't be choosers." Then Abby makes a face. Bleh, it's like she's the adult now, with the trite sayings and the being the responsible one. Isn't that supposed to happen in about thirty years, when she's the rich CFO of a major corporation? An environmentally and socially-conscious CFO, of course.

Mom is all about the primal needs now. Does what she wants in the moment, never mind what others want. Toddlerhood all over again. Except with an adult's mind, body and financial freedom. 

She shudders to think what Mom would be like without her family to steer her the right—the safe—direction.

"I think we got all the unconvicted murderers in a twenty-mile radius, Mrs. Hammond. I read the court reports every day, but..."

"I know, Eric," Mom pouts, but she ruffles his hair as she passes. "I'm gonna put this dress in the closet."

As soon as she's out of the room, Dad turns to her with a held out spoon. "Hey, Abby, what do you think of this sauce? Too much garlic?"

Abby takes the spoon and samples it. "Good on the garlic, maybe a little more… pepper?"

" _That's_ what it was missing!" he exclaims, cheerful as can be. "Thanks, sweetheart." He starts to dig in the spice cabinet, humming again.

After his run-in with the police and mental hospital, Dad came home a changed man. Still a great father, still a loving husband, a responsible and contributing member of the family—but in complete denial about Mom's, uh, illness. Even after the cure halted her progression.

It's become sort of a daily routine. Eric comes over after school to "study with Abby" and he ends up eating dinner with them most days. Dad cooks for them, Mom has her meals in the basement and doesn't come back upstairs until she's cleaned up. Meal planning for Mom doesn't usually happen until after Dad has gone into the home office. Abby has no idea what he does while they're out… grocery shopping. Ick, now she's doing it.

She sits down beside Eric, and he silently points out the location on the map. Abby takes a few mental notes—three miles away, older neighborhood, she'll have to check on the police presence when she's doing reconnaissance—and then she gently closes the lid of the laptop. "Later," she mouths.

Eric nods and pulls out his math textbook. She does the same, though they're not in the same class, god no. He's like, in some AP/IB/whatever class, and she's barely passing Algebra II. Every so often, he'll glance over and make a gentle correction on her formulas. Honestly, the only reason she's even barely passing is because of him, or she'd be doing a lot worse.

Dad sets down plates in front of them with a flourish. "Fettuccini alfredo a la Hammond, as requested. Bon appetit!" He's so cheerful that it's even hard for her to tell that it's a façade. And she's known him all her life.

Abby twirls a mouthful of noodles onto her fork and takes a bite. Yep, just needed a little pepper. "Perfect, Dad."

"So good," Eric agrees, though it's a little garbled because he hasn't finished swallowing yet.

Dad beams briefly before tucking into the food himself. They're usually quiet while eating, unless Dad wants to ask about her day. And since she spent the afternoon with Mom, well, he's not going to ask. And Abby knows that he doesn't really want to know. Anything zombie-adjacent—like Mom stealing the dress and offering to eat the terrible salesgirl—is a completely off-limits conversation topic. 

Abby hears Mom's footsteps coming down the stairs, and she braces herself. Will it be pleasantries about work? Dad will still talk shop with her, so it's a safe topic. Will Mom make a snide comment about the food? Anything with meat in it smells rotten to her, and even though there are only cheese and veggies in the sauce, dairy products are close enough. Will she pass right on by on her way to the basement? Sometimes that's just easiest, though Abby has to push down a wave of sadness every time it happens. 

Whoever would have thought she'd miss food and conversation around the dinner table?

But that's the new status quo. Abby's not going to force the issue, like Mom, or pretend there's nothing different, like Dad. 

Mom's footsteps pause at the bottom of the stairs. It's too early to tell which way she'll go. Abby hears an indrawn breath like Mom's about to say something— 

There's a knock at the door.

Everyone's heads swivel toward the sound. "You expecting someone, Joel?" Mom asks, a thread of annoyance in her voice. Uh oh, that means she's starting to get hungry.

"No." He sounds confused and concerned. They avoid having people over under any circumstances, because, uh, it should be obvious.

"Maybe it's my mom," Eric says. "I forgot to mow the lawn yesterday, what with all the…" He swallows down the rest of the sentence. The research they've been doing, Abby finishes mentally.

Another knock sounds, this time louder and more insistent.

"Yeah, definitely her." Eric pushes back from the table and stands, grimacing. "I'd better—"

The doorbell sounds this time along with a banging that rattles the door on its hinges. "I know you're in there! Open up!"

Everyone at the table jumps to their feet. Eric takes a few shuffling steps to hide behind Abby, and voices what they all have realized. "That's not my mom."

Mom steps beside Abby, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. "I'll get it."

The other three get out of sight. Better their visitor doesn't know how many people he's dealing with. There's nothing they can do about the three plates of food on the table, but at least they can be out of harm's way. What kind of psycho is this, anyway? Abby hopes it's a mistake. But the ache in her gut—the one that's made her such a good partner in, uh, meal planning—tells her this is something else.

The door opens and Mom puts on her sweetest real estate agent voice. "How can I help you?"

"What the hell are you doing following me?"

"Excuse me?" Abby has to admit, Mom's great at sounding confused and caught off-guard.

"I know it's you, or someone who drives that car." Abby's gut ache turns sour. Has someone been using the family car for reconnaissance, instead of a different beater every time? That's a rookie mistake—they should be way past those by now. She looks at Eric, and he gives his head a furious shake. He raises his eyebrows at her, and she shakes her head back at him. Then she has a terrible thought—oh, god, is Mom losing her touch?

"My car?" Mom asks, worry seeping into her voice. All fake, of course, Mom doesn't feel worry anymore, or much of anything else other than hunger and want, but she can playact the full range of human emotion. At least she used to be able to...

"Don't play dumb. You've been driving past my house, and following me all over town—"

"Ohhhhh, I see what's happened," Mom says smoothly. "My husband and I are real estate agents, so we drive all over Santa Clarita. It's just part of the business. Total coincidence, I assure you."

It's about then that Abby notices Dad rocking back and forth in place, a faintly audible whine coming from his throat. "Dad?" Abby mouths.

The whine gets louder.

"Did you do this?"

He adds a head nod to the rocking.

Eric and Abby's eyes go wide. What? How is dad suddenly on board with the family's side business, and without telling anyone? That could be _any_ rando at the door, vetted or not.

The whine rises in pitch and Abby clamps her hands on Dad's shoulders. "Keep it together, Dad."

The intruder's voice cuts in on their little freak-out. "How do you explain this? And this?"

Abby has no idea what the guy's talking about but they've got to get control of this situation before any of the neighbors—especially the cop, Rick, next door—notice the commotion.

Abby jumps up and into view of the front door. "Hey, Mom, I—" She frowns. "Who's this?"

As the guy's attention turns toward Abby, Mom closes the front door with him inside. He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. Instead, his eyes roll up in his head and he slumps to the floor. 

Mom pockets her trusty hypodermic needle. "Thanks, sweetheart, I thought I was never going to get the right angle."

Abby rushes to the window. "Do you think anyone saw?" The street is dark, but the guy's car is right there in their driveway. All it would take is one jogger, one person walking their dog...

Mom shrugs slightly, bending down to lift up the guy under his arms. "Who is this guy, anyway?" she asks, lifting him easily into a fireman's carry. "I never saw him on any of Eric's reports."

Eric appears then. "That's because he wasn't." He wrings his hands as he looks over their unintended victim. "I don't recognize him."

Neither does Abby. He wasn't even on their D-list of prospects. She sighs and calls toward the kitchen, "Dad?"

There's a pause. After a moment, he calls back weakly, "Yes, honey?"

"Who is this guy?"

"Your _father_ did this?" Mom asks in actual, unfeigned shock.

Abby opens her mouth and shakes her head to show she's just as confused. Eric is already pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves and checking the body for identification.

Dad appears in the door frame, face tense and embarrassed. "Uhh… surprise?"

Mom puts the guy down in a sort of slumped sitting position on the couch, while Abby closes the curtains. He'll be out a couple of hours while they figure out what to do with him. 

Mom's mouth turns up in a small grin as she looks down on the guy—whether it's in some unusual form of gratitude or because she's a little peckish, Abby can't tell. "I'm definitely surprised."

"But still," Abby says more urgently. "Who _is_ this guy, Dad?"

"Um, well..." Dad scratches the back of his neck. "It's kind of a long story."

"I don't think we have time for any long stories right now..." Eric's looking toward the door now, and Abby hears it, too, the sound of footsteps on the landing.

Then another knock, the second visitor of the night, two more than they want or need. "Hey, you guys okay in there? I thought I heard shouting." It's Rick, of course it's Rick, this is why they carry out their kills _far away_ from the house. Dad should know better after what happened with Eric's stepdad, Dan. Abby turns a look on her dad that attempts to convey all of that and he cringes.

"Joel? Sheila?" Rick knocks again. "Abby?"

Mom sweeps up the guy's unconscious body and heads for the basement. Dad visibly tries to get himself together and goes to open the door. "Heyyyy, Rick. Sorry, we were just sitting down to dinner. Don't want to let it get cold. What was that you were saying?"

Rick steps in and looks around. "Hey, Abby, Hey, Joel." Abby notices that Eric has disappeared from sight again. Rick closes the door behind him. "Alondra thought she heard shouting. You have company over?"

"Company?" Dad frowns, pushing out his lips awkwardly. He's _not_ the actor Mom is, that's for sure.

"Then whose car is that?"

"Repairman," Abby puts in. "Got a leak in the basement."

"Oh, yeah, that's probably what you heard—Sheila was arguing with him over the price. You know plumbers, always trying to cheat you." Dad nudges Rick's elbow with his.

Rick looks down at the nudge, eyebrows crinkling together. For a second, Abby worries that yes, they _are_ going to have another Dan situation on their hands, but then his brow smooths out and he nods. "Know what you mean. You want me to look at it? I can be pretty handy with a wrench."

"So can Mom," Abby says. She keeps a straight face, but her mind flashes back to the time Mom brained a corporate embezzler on his way to the airport with a chrome-plated adjustable wrench.

Dad turns back to her, his expression full of _not… helping…_ , but then he chuckles and nudges Rick again. "Abby's right. I'm sure Sheila can keep him on track, but I'll let you know."

Rick smiles. "You do that." He starts for the door. "I promised Alondra I'd check, but I better go before _my_ dinner gets cold."

There's a few more pats and handshakes and knowing looks and then he's finally gone. They all freeze in place for a couple of minutes, anyway, barely breathing.

Abby opens and closes her mouth a couple of times, not sure what to say. She's happy that Dad's back to normal—well, their version of normal—but she's worried that he's dropped them into a mess they can't get out of. So she tries, "Dad, I—"

"What the hell, Joel?" Mom says, interrupting her attempt. "I thought we were past all these bullshit kindergarten kills. Are you trying to get us _all_ locked up this time?" Eric slips into sight again from the kitchen.

Dad flinches back. And that's enough to bring Abby's words flooding out. "Hey, cut him some slack, Mom. He's trying, okay? After all this time, he's trying. Isn't that enough?"

Mom blows out a frustrated breath. "Trying was for last year. Now we're a well-oiled machine. Eric does the research, you do reconnaissance and set the trap, I carry out the kill and dispose of evidence. Joel was supposed to be the 'normal' face of the family. What did you say, Abby? He's there for 'plausible deniability?' If he doesn't know what we're planning, he can't give us away?" She levels an accusing finger at Dad and says, "What the hell is his purpose in all of this now?"

"Hey!" Dad shouts, and then brings his voice down to an urgent whisper. "So I screwed up. But I… I just couldn't do it anymore. Be a part of this family, but not part of it in all the ways that matter—" His voice breaks and he swallows, hard. "Distracting myself any way I could while the rest of you are off… doing what you do."

He turns and Abby follows his gaze, toward the basement where the guy is hidden, unconscious but presumably still alive. For now. 

"Sheila." Dad takes a couple of steps toward Mom. "I love you. Please let me be part of this again."

Mom looks at him consideringly, and for a moment Abby wonders if there's still a flicker of the old Mom in there, the one who would break down and give him a hug, or harangue him with a list of every single mistake he's made in the last twenty years.

But her mouth just tightens and she shrugs. "Fine. But you don't do _anything_ without clearing it with me or Abby first."

Dad gives her a relieved smile. "I won't." If he notices that Mom didn't say she loved him back, he doesn't show it.

Abby tries not to show it either.

* * *

Turns out the guy is named Max. Or was—the angle of his neck and bluish color of his face mean he's already gone. He was a construction worker who cheated Dad out of thousands of dollars at poker. It's a pattern, too, because Dad starts naming a long list of people who Max cheated as well. Mom listens to the whole story of how, instead of working quietly in his office while they were out, Dad's been gambling to distract himself, every other sentence an apology. Mom doesn't says anything, she just strips and bags Max up in a large duffel she somehow had ready to go.

There are no questions about just how _many_ thousands of dollars were lost, or where he got the money to lose in the first place. Abby wants to know, like, are they in dire straits now? Are they going to lose the house? Or did Dad build up and lose a secret pile of cash during the last year?

But she doesn't ask. If she does it might break this fragile alliance that's forming.

"Okay," Mom says, all business. "Someone has to get his car out of our driveway and out of sight. Without attracting attention."

"I'll do it!" Dad volunteers quickly. "I know where he lives already."

"Do you also know where the traffic cameras are between here and there?" 

"I…" He shakes his head. "But I can learn—"

"Too late for tonight," she cuts him off. "And he's not going back home. You ordered delivery but we're taking this to go instead."

Abby makes a face but she doesn't complain. She'll let Mom have this one.

"Eric," Mom orders, and Eric jolts a little where he'd been hanging awkwardly in the doorway. "Get in his clothes and follow Scenario C."

Eric's eyes go wide, and Abby knows why—it's not his role. He's been "research only" the past year, never "out in the field." But he does know the traffic cameras, since he's been planning the routes for them for months. He nods and gathers the discarded clothes into his arms.

While Eric's off changing, she watches Dad as he watches Mom, shifting from foot to foot, wringing his hands surreptitiously behind his back. He has no idea what Scenario C means, so she offers, "Um, Mom, should we maybe put dinner into the fridge before it goes bad?"

Mom looks up from where she's doctoring the pipes to look broken then fixed. She fixes Dad with another considering look, then says, "Sure. Be ready in five."

Dad reaches for and squeezes Abby's hand on the way up the stairs.

* * *

They get rid of the "Max the plumber" with little trouble. Dad tags along, watching, making a quiet comment to Abby here or there, but mostly taking it all in. 

And that's the way it goes for the next few kills: Dad looks over Eric's shoulder during research, he comes with Abby during reconnaissance, he plays lookout while Mom carries out the snatch and grab. Abby watches his face through all of this. There's interest when he sees Eric zero in on a target, a flash of recognition when he realizes why Abby takes one street instead of another, a touch of worry when it takes Mom a few minutes longer than it should to complete the task. Abby can tell he wants to do more, but he also doesn't want to get in the way.

They've been at this so long it's hard to see what Dad's new role should be. He's been the unintentional alibi—and unintentionally good at it—for almost a year. The problem niggles at her all day long; it distracts her during lectures at school, and it keeps her up at night.

He still makes dinner every night for the three non-zombies. He still handles a lot of the real estate business whenever Mom's getting too hungry to be social, or when she's busy... elsewhere.

But that's what he's always done. The only difference is that he wants to know what's going on, instead of actively ignoring it.

She comes home from school a few days later to the smell and sound of grilling meat. Her whole body stiffens up—will Mom lash out at him for stinking up the house? "Dad—?" she begins as she steps into the kitchen.

And she stops. He's at the table, hunched over Eric's laptop, while Eric flips bacon on the stove. Dad's concentration is so intense he never looks up.

Eric turns to her. "You want a little bacon with your grilled cheese?" He takes a pair of tongs and turns over one of the slices. "It's the only thing I can cook. Cook well, anyway."

"What's..." She points back and forth between her dad and Eric. "...going on here?"

Eric shrugs. "He wanted a turn at research. It's been same old same old lately. I thought maybe he could see something I haven't?" He turns back to the stove.

"Okay..." He didn't clear it with Mom or with Abby, the way Mom insisted. But it's just a little research, right? She goes over to the windows. Maybe they can air out the house before Mom notices.

"Don't worry," Dad says, still not looking up. "Mom's off shopping for tools in Indio. She said her cleaver was getting too damaged to sharpen properly."

Abby doesn't question why Mom's in Indio. She knows Mom will take a safe route and stay in disguise for the security cameras. She's done it several times for whatever equipment she needs, always a different location, always far from Santa Clarita. "Is she coming back tonight?"

"Late, probably."

"Figured we'd take a chance on bacon for once." He looks up then. "Hey, Eric, have you ever thought about doing more research in the finance sector? There's gotta be more scumbags to choose from than Sheila could go through in years."

"Have at it," Eric says cheerfully, turning another slice, and Abby suddenly feels lighter than she has in months.

* * *

There's a test the next week. The midterm. And even though she's marginally better at history than algebra, she's still no Eric. On nights like this, that CFO dream seems so far away. 

"Where are we with tonight's target?" Mom asks as she comes up from the basement. "Because I'm down to the last leg on that stockbroker."

Abby shakes her head, frustrated. "I don't know. I haven't had a chance to really focus on anything with midterms." She really shouldn't have wasted all that time perfecting her essay for English class when she knew it was already solid B work.

"Eric?" Mom's eyes look a little red, the way they do when she's going primal. "Midterms, too?"

"They tend to give them all out at the same time. That's high sch—" His words stutter as he catches the way her teeth are starting to grind. "—ool fo-or ya..."

"But um," Abby hurries to put in, "I could probably go out after ten. I think I'll be prepared enough for—"

The door opens and Dad comes in, dropping his keys in the ceramic bowl while whistling. He drops a notepad on the counter. "I think that's all you need, hon. Her whole schedule. Times and locations and routes." He hangs his jacket on a hook and then grabs a beer from the fridge, all while they stare at him unblinking. "I'm gonna watch a little TV." 

He leaves. Abby and Eric exchange a glance. Mom looks down at the little notepad. Abby braces for an explosion. Once again, he's done something without clearing it first… But she just tilts her head, picks up the notepad, flips a couple of pages, then heads downstairs with it.

Close one, Dad. But now Abby can focus on her midterms and get a decent night's sleep. Or let's be real, some sleep at least.

Eric shares an impressed grin with her and they go back to studying.

* * *

It's just another Sunday when the worst-case scenario strikes. Dad's watching the game over at Rick's and Eric and Abby are in the kitchen, getting a project ready for a presentation the next day. Mom is off hunting, though Rick thinks she's visiting her sister in Pasadena.

The windows are open, so she and Eric can hear the sounds of the game drifting from next door: cheers and groans, the sound of the crowd, the too-loud commercial breaks. But suddenly Rick stops cheering abruptly. Abby wouldn't have noticed it except that the TV goes mute. "Copy. Be there in fifteen," she hears him say.

Eric and Abby stop and look at each other, instinctively curious about what could pull Rick away when he's off-duty. Maybe a possible target for Mom?

"I have to go," Rick is saying. "Work, you know."

"Really?" Dad says, disappointed. "And the game was just getting good!"

"Right?" Abby can hear the sounds of Rick collecting his things. "Guess they need all hands on deck."

"It's that serious?"

"Uh..." Rick hesitates. "Can't say anything yet. You know how it is. You might catch it on the news later..."

"Catch your ugly mug on the news, you mean," Dad jokes.

"They'd be lucky to show my face on TV. Real boost to the ratings." There's a sound of the door opening. "You can keep watching if you want, Alondra won't be back until later. Just let yourself out when you're done." The door shuts and his car peels away a minute later.

Without Abby asking, Eric turns on the police scanner. "...repeat, suspect at Santa Clarita Woodlands Park. Five foot four, caucasian, gender unconfirmed. Considered armed and dangerous. All units to..."

"Mom?" Abby asks, panic freezing her insides. 

"Maybe," Eric says, switching from his PowerPoint presentation to a map of the area. "I thought she was going to be in Stevenson Ranch, but maybe the guy led her on a chase...?"

Dad appears then, and puts his hands on the sides of the laptop. "Let me." 

Eric stops typing and lifts his hands away from the keys. Abby would have, too, from the authority and determination in Dad's voice alone.

Dad pulls the laptop over toward him and sits in a chair. Pulling up a site she's never seen Eric use, he logs in quickly and suddenly a map is loading with a blinking red dot in the center. The dot is in the southwest quadrant of Santa Clarita Woodlands Park.

"Did you...?" she begins, surprised despite herself.

"...put a GPS tracker..." Eric continues.

"...on Mom?" Dad finishes. "Yeah. I did. I worried that something like this would happen. And it has." He zooms in on the dot, taking note of the coordinates as he pulls out his phone to synchronize it. 

"Does she know?"

"I don't think so." He straightens in his chair. "God, I hope not. But she never said anything. Probably not. She can't feel pain, and the wound closed up almost immediately after I injected her." 

This is way beyond not clearing things with them. Mom is going to tear him a new one when she finds out. 

He closes the laptop and stands, turning to Abby. "You got that burner phone on you?"

She blinks at him a couple of times. She thought he'd spoken with authority before. This is like some five-star general-level shit. "Y-yeah." 

"Bring it and get in the car. Both of you."

On the road, Abby tries Mom's burner several times to no effect. She's either got it turned off or she ditched it when fleeing. But it doesn't matter. According to the GPS, Mom is heading farther into the wilderness, farther away from any roads. It's nothing but trees and scrub in those foothills. And Abby knows Mom's fast. No fence, electrical or otherwise, is going to stop her.

They keep to the roads, though, trying to predict which way Mom will go. The police scanner is their only road trip soundtrack. It sounds like there are at least twenty patrol cars out there, and there's no telling how many officers are on foot. Every time a patrol car comes screaming from behind them, they tense up. Every time one goes screaming past them in the wrong direction, they relax. 

"If this were a spy show, we'd have all of them plotted on that map so we could see if any of them were getting close," Eric says after the fifth one passes. Which way doesn't seem to matter anymore.

Abby chuckles and Dad smiles a tight smile. But no one has any fantasies of how this will really go if Mom gets caught. Even if the rest of them find a way to avoid suspicion, which seems unlikely, nothing will ever be same.

Will they lock Mom up forever? Put her on death row? Either way, will they realize what she is, what they have? And then what? Will they use her as a lab rat? Or will someone shoot her in the head and put her out of her misery?

The rest of them will likely be quarantined just in case, no matter what the scans show.

"We can't let them find her," Abby says. It's an obvious statement. The most obvious, but the other two nod their heads anyway.

About ten minutes after dark, the dot stops. It's nowhere near a road. Which is good for avoiding the cops on the roads. Not so much for avoiding the ones on foot, if any of them are close. 

And not so much for her family to reach her easily.

Dad pulls the car over at the closest turnout. He shuts off the engine and gets out, pulling some backpacks out of the trunk. And a mini-cooler that he stuffs into one of the bags.

"Did you have this prepared already?"

Dad shrugs on the backpack with the cooler. "Of course. That's my job, right?"

Abby crinkles her nose and mouth up. "Your job?"

"You know, the backup." He hands them each a backpack to put on. "The Plan B."

"Huh." Now that she thinks about it, that's what he's been doing. Picking up the slack when one of them can't complete a task. Being prepared for the worst-case scenario, like this. He's slotted himself into a role she never realized they needed.

"Come on," he says, gesturing into the trees with his flashlight. It's hard to tell what the terrain is like, even with that bit of light. But it doesn't matter. They have to find Mom.

* * *

The moon is high overhead, slanting through the gaps in the canopy, when they first hear it. The sounds of branches crackling. Dad hears it first, holding a hand up and shutting off the light with a click. Someone is coming.

She catches a quick glance at Dad's phone screen before he turns that off, too. Mom's dot hasn't moved. It's not her.

Unless she found the tracker and dug it out, and then—

"You see anything?" a male voice asks. 

Not Mom. Abby tenses and goes behind a tree just as the beam of a flashlight passes across the place she'd been standing.

"Naw, nothing." 

The second voice sounds familiar. Her eyes widen when she realizes it, but Dad's in her ear first. "Rick," he murmurs.

"They're probably not out this far anyway, right?" the first voice says, closer.

"Or they could be. If I were trying to escape the cops, that's what I'd do," Rick says, even closer. She sees the flash of the beam only yards away. "There are hundreds of miles of forest out here. They could stay put and elude us for weeks."

That's what she's hoping. What they're all hoping. But weeks means Mom'll get hungry. She won't be able to stay out here long, not without human flesh to live on. And then she'll have to go looking for someone to feed on, whether it's a patrolman... or a resident whose house borders this park...

Oh god, they _have_ to find her.

"How long do you think they're going to make us search?" Rick's partner asks.

"Long as it takes, now shut up! You're going to tip them off."

This time, Rick's voice is so close that she takes a startled step back, and a branch cracks under her foot. Everything goes still. Her team, the policemen, there's not even any wind. The air feels like it's locked in her lungs, while at the same time her muscles begin to tremble with adrenaline.

"Was that—?"

"Shh!" Rick whispers. "Someone there?" he calls more loudly, his footsteps and voice slowly coming closer. "Santa Clarita police. Show yourself and you won't be harmed."

For long moment, no one moves. Then she feels her dad wrap an arm around her shaking body. She turns just her eyes toward him and sees a glint of metal shining in his hand. It's too dark to tell what it is. A knife? A gun? Does he even know how to use it?

Then he brings the metal object to his lips. A long slow call rings out, the sound of a bird. She doesn't know which one Dad's imitating, even which birds are native to this area. But Rick jumps back. "Shit! It's just a bird." 

Rick's partner teases, "Sorry I tipped off a _bird_."

Rick mumbles something under his breath—Abby only catches a couple of curse words—and then they both stalk on past, talking in low voices, without noticing them there behind the stand of trees.

She doesn't relax until the sounds of their passage are completely gone. Dad releases her arm and steps away, out of the shadows of the heavy branches above them. Her mouth drops open at what the moonlight reveals: Dad has a gun after all.

He notices her gaze and tucks it behind his waistband. "Glad I didn't have to use it this time."

This time? What other times did he use it? But she doesn't ask.

They find Mom about an hour later, curled up beside the trunk of a tree. Her head shoots up when they come into view, her eyes hollow and feral in the dim light. Then they clear when she recognizes them. "Abby? Eric?" With surprise, she adds, "Joel? How did you find me?"

"Does it matter?" he tells her, then holds out the cooler they brought along out to her. Mom takes and opens it, looking inside. "I thought you might be hungry," Dad explains.

Mom doesn't say thank you, she just digs in. Abby turns away—it's still too hard to watch Mom eat.

But she can still hear Dad tell Mom gently, "Let's get you home."

* * *

The next time she goes to buy clothes, she's with Dad. "Isn't that the place you like?" he asks when she doesn't stop at the usual shop. It's been a pretty good week, and she doesn't want to ruin it by having to deal with _Becky_.

"Eh. I'm over that place now. They have some cute clothes, but..."

"But what?"

"Horrible customer service."

Dad stops her before they walk all the way past the display windows. "Is that all?"

" _Condescending_ and horrible customer service."

He tuts. "Let me go in with you. I can out-condescend anyone in that store—I've got at least twenty-five years on most of them."

She looks through the windows at an outfit that she'd love to get. But there's that niggle of annoyance... and fear. Fear? Why is she afraid? She survived a police manhunt, she can survive this.

Dad must know what she's thinking. "You can do it." His voice is warm and encouraging. "I'll be your backup."

She smiles. "That's your job, right?"

"Damn straight." He holds out his elbow like a nineteenth-century gentleman. 

She takes it with a mock-curtsy and they walk in.

She ends up with three extra outfits and a hefty discount. Turns out Becky got fired weeks ago over multiple customer complaints. The manager's so happy to have customers back that she's running a buy-one-get-one sale.

Fired, ha. So Becky didn't end up on the menu—this is probably better anyway.


End file.
